


All the Kak That Happened in India

by BushRat8



Category: Elysium (2013)
Genre: Friendship, Horrific War Wounds, Kruger's version of hurt/comfort, Multi, Possibly squicky for the inexperienced, Psychological Recovery, Psychological Trauma, brothers-in-arms, comradeship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 12:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2850152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/BushRat8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What they were doing in India is not important.  How Kruger and his men deal with the ghastly injury he sustained there *is*.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Was I So Careless?

A/N:  Can med-bays heal the mental trauma of massive injury?  That's the biggest NO ever.  They just can't, and it's possible that Elysium's human medicos no longer understand that such trauma must be dealt with.  The idea of Kruger facing the psychological aftermath of something so horrible without at least a modicum of support and understanding is appalling beyond words.  Enter his good friend Drakie.  Without him, I don't know what would have happened.

I've been asked why I generally call him Drake rather than Drakie.  It's because Kruger and Crowe can address him like that.  They can introduce him, think of him, and speak of him that way.  As the narrator, however, I am not entitled to use that particular diminutive unless I'm speaking through Kruger or Crowe, as it's not inherently built into the name, but is one bestowed out of comradeship and probably no small bit of affection.

 

 -oOo-

* * *

-oOo-

 

 _How the hell was I so fucking careless as to let that happen?_   Kruger wonders once his wits are somewhat less scattered and he's able to wonder anything at all.  He's just been told that it wasn't even a modern weapon that tore him apart, but a land mine so ancient that it shouldn't have still been live after all these years.

Sudden traumatic amputation with its attendant blood loss is one of the worst things a soldier will ever deal with in battle;  so, while Crowe gets them off the ground and out of harm's way, Drake frantically shoves what's left of Kruger into the Raven's field med-bay that folds down from one of the bulkheads.  It's not designed to do more than stop bleeding and knit the worst of torn flesh and bone back together until proper repair is possible;  and this time, though it works to the best of its capacity, it's barely enough.  "You'll be fine, boss,"  Drake reassures him over and over in a shaky voice, patting his shoulder;  but in reality, with wounds this bad, he can't even be sure that Kruger will survive the next nineteen minutes' rushed trip to the Armory.

It's a hard thing to admit, but Drake's not certain he wouldn't be better off dead.

The mine's blast began by shattering Kruger's left leg just above the knee, while the diagonal blow upwards took the right one off at the upper thigh.  His abdomen is full of shrapnel, he's being poisoned by his own ripped intestines, and the ruined comm panel on his right forearm no longer has a complete hand below it.  All that would be dreadful enough, but it's the damage done between Kruger's legs that, for a man, is the most appalling.  A cup can protect against kicks and gun butts and can make knives glance off, but even the hardest is utterly useless against hot, sharp metal striking with such explosive force.

Drake, more sickened than he's ever been in his life, forces himself to do an examination and catalogue the injuries:  most of Kruger's pride has been ripped away, leaving barely more than an inch from the root, and the only reason he still retains one slightly-damaged testicle is because it had been pressed to the left side of his groin and was modestly shielded by flesh that's no longer there.  As for the other one… it could be on the ground somewhere, or maybe it was shredded.  It makes no difference to Drake, whose stomach is churning, nor does he want to think about it;  all he knows is that it's gone.

Kruger screamed at first — a high-pitched wailing dying-elephant shriek the likes of which his men have never heard out of him before and hope never, ever to hear again — and he's remained unmercifully, if barely, conscious, but he's in such deep shock now that he can't produce a sound beyond the faintest whimper.  For that, Drake is immensely grateful.  It's the only thing that allows him to keep just calm enough to help in the necessary ways he must.

Drake watches as the compact healing arc passes over Kruger's prone body, noting distantly that the shattered stumps are no longer spurting red, and he breathes a sigh of semi-relief as he covers Kruger over with a thermal blanket, as much because it spares him the sight of his mangled commander and friend as anything else.  "You'll be all right, boss,"  he keeps saying.

It's the only thing he can say without screaming himself.

 

-oOo-

-oOo- 

 

The Armory's med-bay does its usual bang-up job of completely healing Kruger's wounds and replenishing his blood supply and other fluids, but there's nothing it can do to ease the mental trauma. 

Coming out of his extensive reconstruction, every muscle is tensed, every vein stands out, and Kruger can barely breathe or speak.  He's weak beyond belief and can't begin to stand up, but even so, he's consumed by a burning fury that makes him want to start throwing punches.  He tries, but can't quite connect, and that makes him even angrier.

Crowe stands by, wide-eyed, like a child whose father is having a meltdown, and who's afraid all that rage will be turned against him, but it's Drake who feels the most helpless and sick in the face of what's happening to this man he so greatly respects.  Weak as he is, Kruger could still kill both of his men without meaning to, and that forces Drake to do something he'll hate himself for later:  he draws his pistol and levels it at Kruger's head, praying he won't have to use it.

Even through his post-traumatic insanity, Kruger can recognize the business end of a gun and he knows it's not his finger on the trigger.  "What the fuck are you doing?"  he snaps, panting.  "Put the fucking gun down, boet!"

Drake takes refuge in formality, hoping it will make what he's doing feel less wrong.  "I will when you're ready, sir.  You need to calm down…"

"I _am_ fucking calm…!"

"Kruger, please!"  Drake's appealing to his friend instead of his superior and colleague now, hoping he'll get through.  "Do you even know what happened to you?"

That stops Kruger.  _Does_ he know?  He's sitting in a med-bay;  what does he remember?

It's a fortunate fact that amnesia sets in and blocks the worst parts of such memories, but even if he couldn't access the med-bay's records, Kruger can still extrapolate his injuries by noting that he's stark naked.  No one bothers removing clothing unless he needs to expose a wound in order to assure himself that it's being healed properly.  And then, there are the implants…

The one on his right wrist is gone, as are the ones on his legs;  every single one of them, all the way up.

Kruger doesn't want to think about what this suggests, but he can't help it:  he grabs the med-bay's screen, turns it around, and looks at the log of what it just healed.  "No,"  he whispers, starting to shake.  "No!  Just… oh fuck, no!!"

Crowe opens his mouth to say something, but a sharp glare from Drake shuts him up before he can.  Crowe means well, but any reassurance he'd try to give Kruger at this point would only backfire.  Drake himself is tempted to put a brotherly arm around the boss's shoulders, but he knows that Kruger has to confront this discovery alone, so, after silently giving him a blanket, he and Crowe retreat some distance away to stealthily observe and make sure he doesn't do something stupid to himself, while giving him the space they know he needs.

There's one word he repeats, over and over — "No.  No!" — and it's only when Kruger finally goes silent that Drake tries approaching him again.  "You're all right, boss,"  he says quietly.  "You're all fixed up now.  Everything's good.  We got you here in time."

"Mm.  Ja."

The opposite of 'no,' but it still sounds the same, to Drake's way of thinking.  He's not surprised that this is going to take a long time to sort out.

Kruger's gained a little strength back, and after a while, he pads off to take a shower, with Drake wondering uneasily if he should tag along.  But,  "He'll be okay now,"  Crowe tells him.  "At least he can stand up…"

"That's not what worries me,"  says Drake.  "His head's fucked up, boet.  Wouldn't yours be?  Mine would."

These men have been known to snicker at each other's wounds — perhaps because that's the way they compartmentalize such terrible things  — but they can't laugh at this.  It's Kruger who sustained the injury, but it's felt by all of them.

Drake hears the water running, and decides it's safest not to wander too far.  "You okay, boss?"  he calls, though he does not draw near enough to see him.  The camaraderie and jovial exposure of the locker room are inappropriate under the circumstances.

He has to call a second time, to a sullen "Ja!" in response;  not even a "Fuck off!" or "Leave me alone!" that would let Drake know Kruger's passing from paralyzed shock into the anger that might really begin to heal him.  Kruger still has to grieve for what he's lost and accept that the restorations are truly a part of himself;  this, Drake learned fifty years ago with the loss of his own left arm, but he knows it's much worse this time.  What Kruger is going through now would be a nightmare to any man, anywhere.

Kruger comes out of the shower, and the way he's wrapped a towel around his waist worries Drake.  He _never_ does that, preferring instead to sashay around the room naked, showing off.  He's the Rooster of the Universe, with an exquisitely-sculpted body, and an impressively thick length of wors lying over a pair of eiers that any man would be proud of (Drake can't help an inward chuckle at the way men so often refer to their genitalia in terms of food.  He does it himself and he's doing it now.  Sausage and eggs:  eat _that!_ ), and it's never mattered to Kruger whether his audience is female or male.  In fact, he often prefers the latter so he can exhibit his superiority to those he doesn't despise.

He's exhibiting nothing now.

Drake has holstered his pistol, deeming Kruger calmer and unlikely to attack, but he'll draw it again if he's proven wrong.  "What a fuck-up,"  he sighs.

Kruger swallows.  "What got me?"

How does Drake dare answer that?  With the truth, because there's no other way.  "Old AP frag land mine,"  he finally says.  "No idea how long that fucker was in the ground, but the only reason it didn't get us all like it was supposed to is because it _was_ so fucking old.  Instead, it sort of just… burped when you tripped it."  He shakes his head and shudders.  "Big enough fucking burp, though."

 _How the hell was I so fucking careless as to let that happen?_   Kruger wonders.  _Goddamn land mine after all these years…_   

"But you're all right now, boss,"  Drake goes on.  "Really."

"I'll be all right when I fucking get home.  Look, I need to get dressed;  you get the Raven ready."

Technically, Kruger's supposed to submit to a session with Elysium's psychologists after any injury classed beyond 'minor,' but Drake knows he doesn't want to talk about this one.  He knows the boss can't face the pinch-faced men and women who've never experienced anything like this, and will never understand what's in his head or why.

Drake nods in empathy;  he wouldn't want to talk to them, either, not for anything, let alone this.  "I'll have Crowe fire her up,"  he says.  "We'll give you a lift, and if you need anything — anything at all, bru — you know how to get in touch." 

Though he doesn't say anything, Kruger nods in acknowledgement of Drake's offer of support.

This, at least, shows that Kruger's making the effort to cope,  Drake thinks,  and he's relieved enough to nod back before he goes off to give Crowe his orders.

 

 

-oOo- TBC -oOo-


	2. Proof of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kruger takes an obvious step forward into his recovery, trying to mentally integrate his restored parts and make sure everything works.

A/N:  The nature of the most intimate part of Kruger's injuries begs a look into some of his tastes and experiences in the bedroom immediately post-trauma:   what he needs, what he feels, and can/should he really divorce himself from what happened by acting differently?  I think he might be confused enough to try, but as to what the effect will be…?  

Warning:  if your own tastes or experiences in sex are conservative or you're honest enough to admit you've just not been around the block all that much yet, then you may well be squicked by certain bits and might not want to read this.  Is what I mention real?  Hell, yeah, for a lot of women, and also for men regardless of orientation, though the straight ones usually have to be the most self-assured, why-should-I-give-a-fuck-what-you-think? types to admit it.  You know:  like Kruger.  How do I know?  How do you think? ;-)

 

-oOo-

* * *

 -oOo-

 

Kruger's worn out, both with the injury and the restoration, and he wants nothing more than to curl up in his bed and sleep.  For the most part, his rest is physically revitalizing, but even so, he wakes periodically with nightmares of what would have happened were he just some peon from Earth with no med-bay access, and it's this about which he cannot stop thinking once he gets up and moving again.

He makes a valiant effort to put it behind him so that the day proves more pleasant than anticipated, and rolls on into a quiet, comfortable, slightly tipsy afternoon, but by evening Kruger's starting to feel that sick uneasiness again;  an apprehensiveness that's making him wonder:  _Is it all still there?  Does it work as it should?  Am I still a man?_

There are ways to find out, and he'll start with the easiest and most private.  It's best that way.  If there's anything obviously wrong, then no one else will be present to hear him when he starts screaming in anguish.

Standing naked before his bedroom mirror, Kruger examines himself in every part, from every angle, nodding in approval at his restored legs, lifting and kneading and skinning back his privates ( _Good thing the med-bay's internal records didn't make a mistake and tell it I was fucking circumcised!_   he thinks, shivering at the idea of such a disfigurement) before beginning, with his repaired right hand, a warm, slow stroke coupled with a rhythmic squeeze of his brand-spanking-new balls.  He wills himself to simply enjoy his growing excitement, to put analysis and scrutiny aside beyond quickly noting, as he begins to come, that he's indeed been restored to full size and potency.  It's more relief, in more ways than one, than he's ever felt in his life;  and, after ten minutes to rest and recharge, he does it again.

Kruger sleeps better that night, waking only twice with the nightmare.  It's an improvement.  But it's still not enough.

 

-oOo-

-oOo-

 

A few nights later, Kruger decides what else he needs to do.  Thus far, he's learned he likes what he feels and sees when he's alone.  Time to try it out on someone else and make sure he's not just kidding himself;  an unspeakable thought that he shuts down just as soon as it occurs to him. 

There are at least as many brothels in Los Angeles as there are homes, because that's the one thing even poor, starving men are willing to pay for.  In most, the women are worn-out, filthy, and ill of countless contagious diseases (that's not including the STDs), but Kruger knows the better class of bordello, with women who are a pleasure to look at as well as to hold.  He runs through a list of two dozen establishments in his head before settling on a tiny place known as The Golden Bush.

The name tells potential clients what to expect, and those who prefer their women shaved know to go elsewhere.  Kruger, however, is not among them;  never has been.  Not that he wants his women to be hairy beasts, but he finds somehow distasteful the popular practice (and oh God, it's been unfortunately popular since he was young) of removing the hair from a woman's pudenda, thus leaving her looking like a sexless child.  No, no, no… he _likes_ it, has always liked it, and wants it to be there, whether it's soft and straight or crisp and curly.  He likes burying his nose in it and breathing in its fragrance.  Whatever else he may be, Kruger is a sensualist who savors every kind of scent and taste and sound and touch, and his mouth is watering already.  His cock, too, has wakened at the thought, and that's a good sign.

The madam of the Bush knows him very well, and anticipates the extra money he'll pay to let him mistreat one of her girls, but she's taken aback when Kruger says,  "Not tonight."  He pays her the regular fee, and what he gives her in addition is simply for a substantial amount of extra time, plus an extra the girls don't normally give.

It's somewhat surprising, and the madam raises an eyebrow, but he's the customer and can have whatever he wants.  Any unplanned, damaging cruelty can be taken out of his wallet later.  He's never complained about that in the past.  "Which one do you want?"

"You know what I like.  Bring 'em out;  line 'em up."

She does indeed know, and summons all the fair brunettes who aren't currently engaged with other clients.  Some look blasé, some look nervous, and they cover a wide range of ages.  All know Kruger;  or, at least, his reputation.

He studies them, refusing to be rushed.   "No, no, no,"  he says, dismissing those he doesn't find appealing enough, as well as who are too old, too young, too innocent, no matter how false that impression may be.  Inexperience is not what he wants.

"No."  Three more girls depart, courtesy of breasts that are simply too tiny.  Kruger likes his women curvy all over, and if a breast isn't big enough to give him more than a nibble of nipple, then he might as well be suckling on a boy.  "And… no."  That tight, perky little backside of which the girl is so proud just cost her a customer.

There are two left, both attractive, with long, dark hair, brown eyes, and ripe bodies.  It's six of one, half a dozen of the other until Kruger catches the faintest glimpse of boredom in the eyes of one of them, which will never do.  "You,"  he says, extending his hand to the other.

She breathes out, willing herself to be calm in the presence of this dangerous man who's requested her services, and slips her hand into his.  "I'm…"

"No,"  Kruger says, cutting her off.  "You keep your fucking name to yourself;  I don't want to know it."  _It's better that way._   Better because, except for his two men, with whom he's shared decade upon decade and multiple lifetimes, and a few other agents, he has no connection to anyone else in this day and age and doesn't want it.  This woman, to him, is not a name or a person, but simply a soft, accommodating body he's purchased to give him pleasure in any way he wants to take it, and to confirm for himself that he's still a whole and functioning man.  Objectively, he knows perfectly well that the latter's true, but a little proof through practical use is still needed.

The room into which she leads him is typical of so many he's seen:  a large bed, a mirror, a place to put his clothes;  not much else.  If he asks, she'll provide gadgets and toys for him to play with, but that's not where his interest lies this evening.  "Nice,"  he says, running his fingers around one breast, down her side, and along her hip.

Kruger's got her caught up in a kiss before she can so much as take a breath;  kisses her again and again, twisting his fingers into her hair and running his tongue deeply into her mouth before pulling back to nip at her neck and her ear.  Then he takes her hands and touches her fingers to the implants on his cheekbones.  It's not something he normally does, and he finds the sensation interesting and strangely intimate.

He allows the girl to undress him, and grins as her eyes widen at the sight of the implants he still has all over his upper body, front and back.  "Do those hurt?"  she asks.

It's a fair question, and Kruger's truthful in his answer.  "They did at first,"  he tells her;  and indeed they did:  both physically and as something that was an invasion of his body down to his very bones. The med-bay did all it could to put bone and muscle and skin back together, but though it was successful, it wasn't enough;  not when what he really needed was time to grow accustomed and to forget the pain.  "At first,"  he says again.  "But now… I don't feel them anymore."  He doesn't tell her that he'll shortly have to undergo the surgery all over again to replace those he lost on his legs, and it will be just as bad as the first time.

That doesn't concern the girl, who's doing a little examination of Kruger's slender body, pressing kisses to navel and hipbones, and to the tender insides of his knees and thighs.  Then she stands up, smoothing her hands through the hair on his chest, but that's not where he wants them, so he grasps one and lowers it, sighing when he feels her running her fingertips around him before giving him a firm squeeze.  "Like that, baby?"  Kruger whispers.  "Is that what you want, eh?  You want me inside you?"  He gives the girl no time to reply before he adds,  "A ja, you can have it… but not yet."

He might not quite be in the usual whip-and-chain mode tonight, but that doesn't mean he's going to play nice or be any less demanding now that he feels his equipment working just fine.  "On your knees, girl,"  he orders her, pushing a finger into her mouth to show her in no uncertain terms what he wants.

By sheer luck, Kruger's got himself a hooker who can take him in more deeply than most of the others, and he's insanely turned on by the sight of his prick disappearing so far into her mouth, as well as by the wet, whimpering sounds she's making.  Since he's paid plenty for a long evening's entertainment, he needn't hold back, but can enjoy the feel of her tongue stroking him into a sudden flood of an orgasm;  and he listens and tries not to smile while she swallows it all down.  All that lovely swallowing is part of the service, but what she doesn't expect, once he's finished gasping and loosens his grip on her head, is the way he drags her to her feet, presses his lips to hers, and laps the remainder of his own semen out of her mouth.

Another man might feel uneasy about this, but one as confidently masculine as Kruger couldn't care less who knows what a cum-slut he is;  or, at least, that he is when it comes to his own.  It's that confident masculinity he's unconsciously asserting now:  that no wound, however horrible, will ever make him less than he is or wants to be.

Besides — and there's nothing unconscious about it — he just likes the taste.  There's a certain intrigue to it:  to know what it's like for the many women who've been on their knees before him.  He has no problem admitting that, either.

The girl makes no comment;  in comparison to so many more of the over-the-top things she's experienced during the course of her work, it seems quite mild.  "What do you want?"  she says softly, putting her finger against Kruger's lips.  "Anything I can give you… what do you want?"

He's growing hard again — painfully so — but it's a feeling he wants to last, because he's long since learned how gratifying patience can be.  "On the bed with you,"  he orders.  "On your back.  Put your knees up, girl;  open your legs."

This isn't the normal way of things — ordinarily, Kruger's intention with a whore is to take pleasure, not give it — but this girl he's chosen is a succulent little thing, so as far as he's concerned, getting and giving will be the same.  "You're wet,"  he observes, pleased that he's done this to her.  He knows perfectly well it's not usually that way with a working girl.  "You want me, don't you?  Say it."

"Want you,"  she breathes.

"Fuck ja, you do.  You've never had a man like me before."

For a moment, the girl's sure he's going to hurt her, because when a man says that, he usually does, but she gets the shock of her life when Kruger settles onto the bed, smooths his rough hands over her legs, and begins kissing her stomach.

Kruger's senses are reeling as he presses his face into the soft, dark hair between her legs, inhales deeply, then nibbles his way along ridges of soft, thin skin, flicking his tongue around and around the girl's sensitive pink nub, laughing against her when she giggles and moans.  He knows he can give real pleasure as well as dispense pain;  and no matter how it might seem from the outside, his many years of life and sheer amount of practice have given him the skills to be an excellent lover.  All he needs is to want to do it.

And right now, he _does_ want it, so the girl had best enjoy what he's willing to give, while he's still willing to give it.  In another two minutes, he may very well change his mind.

The women of the Golden Bush aren't used to being able to lie back and enjoy oral attentions, especially from someone who knows what he's doing, but Kruger's girl is one of the lucky ones.  She's twisting on the bed just the way he likes, but it's not because she's fighting him as a thousand other women have;  instead, it's because he's teasing her to the edge and letting her fall back, over and over and over.  In its own way, it's cruel, but it's also very exciting, for both of them.  Kruger loves it;  so much, that he keeps at it long enough to let her finish.

It does wonders for Kruger's sense of masculine wholeness when he finally feels that telltale slickness on his tongue, because he doesn't kid himself:  these women fuck thirty, forty men a day and feel nothing;  to make one of them come, a client has to be really exceptional.  This simple thing he's just done gives him a lot of his sense of agency back, and he's no longer a man torn apart, wondering if he's been properly repaired.

He's on the girl and deep into her within seconds, planting both hands on her backside and digging his fingers in as he adjusts the tilt of her hips, muffling the noise he's making in the spill of dark hair lying across her neck.  His rhythm's uneven to begin with until he and the whore reconcile the difference in their heights and she's taken note of how hard, at what speed, and in what direction he prefers to push.  She knows her business, so it takes only a few moments to settle in.

Kruger grinds hard against her, groaning, before he begins to stroke.   He knows he'll last much, much longer than the first time, and what the girl is unaware of is that he'll keep going, keep slamming himself into her body, no matter how painful it eventually becomes for her.  If that happens, he might have to pay the madam a little extra for mistreatment after all.

For the present, though, she's sopping wet, and she's looking up at him like he's the most impressively wonderful man in the world.  It's her professional expression, and he keeps reminding himself of that, but it's nonetheless something he wants;  that he needs:  to see in a woman's eyes that his body, which was so recently mutilated and unrecognizable, is desirable.  It's the whole reason he's here.

Kruger presses on the girl's forehead, tipping her head back so he can kiss her.  It's those kisses he's paid extra for — a lot extra — otherwise, the girls do not allow kissing at all.  But he craves the intimacy of a woman's lips against his own, and the taste of her mouth, and the feel of being able to push his tongue against hers.  On some nights, as on this one, he wants sweetness and compliance;  on others, it's because he hungers for the taste of ill-concealed fright and disgust (and he knows exactly which girls he can make the most fearful);  but whichever it is, it's money well spent.  "No, don't bite your lip,"  he grunts, trailing his tongue along her jaw.  "Open your mouth, baby.  Open your mouth…"

Midway through, though, the girl starts to get uncomfortable and tries to surreptitiously grab herself a fingerful of lube from the jar on her nightstand, but Kruger's hand clamps down on her wrist.  "No!"  he hisses.  "None of that!"

No one's ever objected before, and she doesn't know what to do, save to bleat,  "Hurts!"

Something inside Kruger freezes, then cracks when he hears that.  "Hurts?!"  he snarls back.  " _Hurts?!_   You think _that_ fucking hurts?  You don't know what hurt is!  You don't know…!"

He doesn't hear the girl's sobbing after that as he pins her down and pounds her while she struggles, nor does he notice how he's scraped her — and himself — to bleeding once he comes and pulls out.  All he sees, all he can feel and think of, is waking up in a med-bay and learning that, in addition to his legs and his hand, his most important parts were torn off and left behind a world away in India, courtesy of some half-dud of a land mine that was probably planted way, way back during the Uprisings of 2021.

Kruger dresses and leaves the room, ignoring the girl who's curled up and crying with her hands pressed between her legs in an effort to assuage the burn, and he slaps some extra cash into the hand of the madam for the fact that the girl probably won't be working for a day or two.  "Might be back,"  he says.  "Might not."

Oh, he will, the madam knows, now that he's found a really good one to hurt.  She knows Kruger well;  knows he'll be looking forward to seeing the frightened expression on the girl's face when he comes asking for her again.  Men just like him keep her in business, paying for extra time and kisses and pain, and if one girl leaves, then ten others even better will come to replace her.

She grins to herself as Kruger strides out and slams the door.

 

-oOo-

-oOo-

 

Kruger sprawls out in his lawn chair, a bottle of beer in one hand, while the other creeps over his lap, patting and gently prodding in satisfaction and approval.  It really wasn't the smartest of ideas to keep fucking the girl dry,  he knows, but right now, even the abrasions feel good. 

The stinging sensation means he actually _has_ something there, to be sucked or scraped, to be pleasured or irritated;  and, right now, that's more important than anything.  He can always get it fixed in a med-bay if it goes on too long.

With tonight's visit to the Golden Bush, Kruger got past the bewildered shock that's been plaguing him over being so egregiously wounded.  Instead, he's angry about it now;  so angry that it's ratcheting up every sadistic instinct he has;  the ones he kept suppressed all this evening, save when they overtook him at the end.  It's those instincts — his true self — coming to the fore that will finally help him accept and move on from what happened.

But there's something else — something he's not doing;  something he needs — and presently, he figures out what it is:  the reassurance and encouragement of the one man who knows exactly what he's feeling, or near enough.

Crowe's a good kid and they've been through a lot together, but it's Drakie he'll call in the morning.

 

-oOo- TBC -oOo-


	3. Am I Still Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kruger and Drake have a beer and discuss what it's like to have a lost limb restored.

-oOo-

* * *

 -oOo-

 

"Ag, no worries,"  says Drake when Kruger tells him why he'd prefer it to be just the two of them.  "Crowe's got ten different chicks he can visit, and you know him:  I don't think heavy talk is on his agenda.  He's still a little…"  The way he trails off says what he feels he shouldn't advertise and Crowe won't admit:  the latter's still scared.  "Anyway, I'll have him drop me off around noon.  But don't cut him out of tonight's braai, or he'll be pissed!"

On his end of a left-hand comm, Kruger's grinning.  "Never, boet.  You tell him he can diddle all the chicks he wants, but I want him here by six."

 

-oOo-

-oOo-

 

 When Drake shows up, he finds Kruger sitting in his chair on the rooftop, munching on a tomato.  "You and your fucking tomatoes,"  he laughs;  and,  "You're getting seeds in your beard."

Kruger snorts.  "Ja?  Maybe I can grow a new plant or two;  carry it around with me."  He points at the cooler.  "Want some beer?"

 _Stupid question,_   thinks Drake, though he means it with all good humor.  "You're looking good,"  he says as he grabs a bottle, pops the cap on the edge of the cooler, and sits down.  He wonders how to start the conversation;  decides that he might as well be blunt.  "Starting to wrap your head around the whole thing yet, eh?  I was fucking worried last time I saw you."

Kruger won't let his own worry show on his face, but he's asked Drake over because the worry's there and he needs to talk about it.  "Tell me something, boet,"  he counters.  "Your arm… How long… how did you…"  He's rarely at a loss for words, but he's not speaking as someone who's on the outside looking in any longer.  Oh, he's been shot and cut and burned, lost small bits of himself along the way — fingers here, half a foot there — and he's sometimes terribly smashed things up, but it's never been as serious as this. 

He's fortunate that Drake cares deeply for his brothers-in-arms, has been there, and understands.  "It's tough, Matt,"  he sighs, and it will be the only time he uses Kruger's given name today:  so that he can get in close as an equal and make him pay attention.  "God, it's tough.  Fucking med-bay grew me a new arm, all right, but it couldn't make it quite feel like mine.  That's what it's like for you, eh?"

"Mm-hm."

"It's like… well, my arm was there,"  Drake goes on,  "but if there was supposed to be a nerve labeled 'This Fucker Belongs To You,' then the med-bay forgot to connect it."

The way he puts it makes Kruger nod, because it rings so true, so _entirely_ true.  His legs now carry him steadily from one place to another, his hand can grasp gun or beer bottle or cock, his newly-restored package looks good, works exceedingly well, and gives him every sensation he wants, but that sense of _belonging_ still hasn't quite come back yet.  It's a freakish feeling, this disjointedness, and it's one he needs to know will stop.

He needn't say anything for Drake to know what he's thinking.  "It _will_ connect back up, I promise,"  he assures Kruger.  "It does for everybody and it did for me.  Far as I'm concerned, this is the arm I was born with."  What he hasn't yet said is that he noticed immediately upon arriving that Kruger isn't wearing his usual shorts, but has on a full pair of trousers.  That kind of concealment needs to stop straightaway.  "But even if it doesn't feel that way yet, you need to treat it that way.  So tell me… what the fuck are you wearing?"  Drake uses his hand to tap his waist, then his ankle.  "I haven't seen you wearing that much when you're off-duty for the last eighty years."

Kruger knows it.  He knew it the moment he pulled his long britches on.  "Ja, I know,"  he sighs.  "Just give me a day or two…"

"No,"  Drake says firmly.  "Even that little's too fucking much.  Now, you go put on your usual kit.  _Now._   That's an order." 

From no man would Kruger ordinarily take such insubordination and backtalk, but this is Drakie and he's been asked over to help.  What help will there be if he doesn't listen?  "Ja, right,"  he says, and listening carefully, one can hear the trace of anxiety in Kruger's voice as he gets up.  "Back in a tick."

It's a long, long tick, and Drake begins to wonder if he should go in and find out what's going on.  But a little thought makes him decide against it:  for one thing, what must Kruger be feeling to know that his second-in-command got such a close-up and bloody horrible look at him when he was so blown to pieces?  Kruger relies on feeling invincible, and he wasn't.  He's a man among men, and Drake saw him when he was no man at all.

In his bedroom, Kruger is standing before the mirror, clothed in the shorts/no shirt/clunky boots that comprise his normal Uniform of the House.  _I look good,_   he tells himself, and he's almost convinced.  _I've got everything a woman would want and a man would want to have._   Then all at once, he realizes what's wrong.  _But I'm missing everything that makes me an Agent;  the best fucking Agent in Elysium's history.  If I don't have that, then what am I even alive for?_

To his eye, his legs seem naked without the metal that normally dots them, and his right arm is wrong without its comm.  Sure, he's got the one on the left, and the rest of the implants on his upper body remain fully functional, but without the others, he feels unbalanced.  In this aspect which is so important to him, he feels incomplete and faulty. 

Kruger does, however, finally go out onto the roof so that Drake can see him;  not only that, but after a moment, he gets up the courage to drop everything and put himself on display.  The men have seen each other naked in the Armory's locker room countless times, after all.  "Well?"

Drake's once-over is as solemn and respectful as he can make it, considering that the way Kruger's standing there with his shorts around his ankles is awkward and, face it, more than a little funny.  "If you think the med-bay could have done a better job, boet, then you'd be fucking mistaken,"  he says flatly.  "Though even I can see the obvious:  you need to get yourself into surgery for new implants, and as soon as possible.  I guarantee:  you'll feel a whole fucking lot better once you do."  Then he laughs.  "Now pull up your panties and quit flashing the neighborhood, unless you really want to make all the dollies for a mile around faint from the heat." 

Kruger snickers as he tugs his shorts back up, settling the waistband at his hips.  "Just a mile, boet?  I must be losing my touch."

Drake smiles widely back and thinks,  _It's a relief to hear him laugh._

 

-oOo- TBC -oOo-


	4. Even the Strongest of Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No recovery goes easily or smoothly, as Kruger finds out to his dismay.

-oOo-

* * *

-oOo-

 

After arguing with Delacourt over the availability of surgical services — and he's quite certain she's dicking him around — Kruger is forced to wait for another four months before he can get his new implants installed.  "Fucking _bitch!_ "  he rages, stalking around one of the empty rooms in his house and kicking holes in the walls.

He hasn't been doing well these days, and no matter how hard he tries to present a tough face to himself and to everyone else, he knows he's going downhill.  The nightmares are back, only now they're different:  he sees himself lying on a battlefield, torn apart and helpless, unable to move, wracked with pain, and feeling himself bleeding into the ground.  Kruger doesn't just wake up sweating;  now he wakes up sobbing and begging for it to stop.  And he's ashamed of his tears, but no matter what he does, how angry he is at himself, he can't help them.  He wants to tell Drake — to ask him if these feelings are normal;  if he felt like this, too — but it's just not something he can confess to another man.

 _What's wrong with me?_   he thinks furiously.  _Why am I acting like a sniveling girl?_

He cries more, and harder.

Kruger drinks more and more as time goes on.  Before, he could be a jovial drunk or a mean one, but now he's just plain miserable.  He starts each morning sick with a wretched hangover;  has little or no appetite for the rest of the day.  And he spends a great deal of time sleeping during the daylight hours, trying to make up for the terrified wakefulness he knows he'll experience during the night, which he finds more exhausting than if he hadn't slept at all.

He especially can't face purchasing women anywhere he's known, lest he lose control and cry in front of them, because if they laugh, his reaction will be deadly.  Instead, he hunts down street women who won't be missed.  Let them laugh all they like if he breaks down and sobs while he's inside them.  When his hands close around their necks, it will be the last thing they ever do. 

None of this goes unnoticed by either Drake, or by Crowe, who has finally mastered his fear and now wants to help.  "Look, bru,"  Drake says sharply when they shows up one afternoon to find Kruger slumped halfway off his bed, not quite asleep.  "You can't go on like this, so get up."

"Fuck off,"  Kruger mumbles.

Though he's trying to hide them, Drake can see the tears, even the ones not yet shed.  He can hear them;  he can _feel_ them.  He knows what this is:  Kruger thought he was coping so well, but memories and feelings are suddenly popping up from every direction and blindsiding him.  He's mourning what was so suddenly taken from his body, and it makes no difference that he was given it back because that's not the point.  Drake felt this same thing with the loss of his arm, so Kruger's behavior doesn't surprise him — in fact, he understands it — but even so, it can't be allowed to go on for too long.

Time to give him the facts of life.

"Sit up, boet!"  Drake orders Kruger, dragging him into a relatively vertical position and slapping him.  "Sit the fuck up!"

Kruger's instinct is to grab him and bellow something furious, but he's so weak and headachey that he can't.  "Leave me 'lone…"

"No.  You have to get up, Kruger.  You have to get up and take a shower;  clear your head a bit.  Crowe here'll make you some breakfast, and you're going to eat it."  Crowe's a pretty good basic cook, as that sort of thing goes, and if that's what he can contribute here, then he's happy to do it.  "Come on, get moving."

At the moment, Kruger can't even think of food;  not with the amount of beer he inhaled the night before and the way his stomach is twisting.  "Oh God… can't… no food…"

"Then go fucking puke if it'll make you feel better."  Drake says this with a shrug.  It's not like he hasn't found himself in the same position a thousand times;  Crowe, as well.  "But you're going to goddamn well get up, go outside, and get some food and fresh air.  Then we're going to talk."

 

-oOo-

-oOo-

 

Kruger doesn't exactly look presentable, but at least he's past the worst of the hangover, washed off the last several nights' fear-sweat from his skin, dressed, and more-or-less given in to his body's demand for nourishment.  He'd forgotten that Crowe really can do tasty things with potatoes and bacon, and the bread he fries in the fat is a warm, soothing weight in everyone's stomachs.  

"This is the kak that those Elysium arseholes think they know all about, but they're wrong,"  Drake tells him once they're all out on the roof sipping, not beer, but some of the precious orange juice that Kruger tries to keep in his little fridge at all times.  "You were right not to go to them… but you do need to talk to me.  To _us_ ,"  he corrects himself, thumping Crowe on the arm.

Then he takes a chance.  "Look, you think I didn't cry myself fucking silly?"  he asks.  "And you think I didn't feel just as humiliated about it as you do?  You really think that?  Eh?  I lost my fucking arm, boet, and you lost even more.  Fucking crying:  _that's what happens._   I'm telling you:  no one gets past that without getting completely gefok in the head.  But you have to come back from it.  You have to cry now so you won't need to later."

Drake can see the storm behind Kruger's dark eyes.  His commander can deal even less well with the grief that's tearing him apart than he could with what caused it in the first place, and he proves it with his next words.  "I don't fucking cry,"  he snaps,  "and how fucking _dare_ you…!"

Drake's out of his chair so fast that he nearly knocks his glass over, and he plants himself in front of Kruger, both hands clamped on his shoulders.  "Now, you listen to me, bru,"  he hisses,  "and you listen like you never listened to anything else in your life!"  Something is trying to make itself known at the back of Drake's head;  something from his teenage schooldays, although he's aware the meaning is different — less philosophical — in this setting.  "Someone has to dare, and _you_ have to listen,"  he says again.  "Someone puts a knife in you, and you're going to bleed.  And if half of you gets torn up and goes missing, then you're going to scream and cry and squawk bloody murder!  Ja, even you!"

 _Shakespeare,_   Drake realizes with a start.  It's a bit of bloody Shakespeare he's remembering:  The Merchant of Venice.  _I guess that class wasn't so fucking useless after all._    

"Even you,"  he repeats, quieter this time.  "I hated crying.  I hated admitting I did — don't you remember? — but I'm a fucking realist, and so are you:  you do what you have to to survive, and you give it time to get better."

Crowe is watching and listening to the exchange, not with the fear he had before, but with the greatest respect for both of these men.  Though he's not lost a limb like the others, he has a good imagination, and the wounds he _has_ sustained have been bad enough.  "We don't think less of you, boss,"  he puts in earnestly.  "No one could.  Jesus, how fucking strong do you have to be even to live through something like this?"

It's the first time he's said anything directly about it;  and, somehow, his simple words get through to Kruger, who mutters,  "Fuck!" as he wipes away a tear before it can fall.

What his men are saying makes sense, no matter how embarrassing it may be:  Kruger's body may be healed, but his mind and heart are still barely scabbed.  All the nightmares and tears, the inability to eat while being driven to drink... it's that crust trying to break apart and bleed.  Like it or not, he's a man, not a droid, and a med-bay is no more than the equivalent of a repair shop for the latter.  As for the rest of what needs to be healed... it's something he must make the effort to do for himself.

Kruger is tremendously thankful to be blessed with brothers-in-arms like Drakie and Crowe, and to have their friendship as well as their respect, but he will never tell them, because that's not his way.  Nor will he admit that he owes them his life for having made him see what he needs to do, but that doesn't lessen the fact of it.  They know him better than any men on Earth, and they would understand.  

Though she undoubtedly intended simply to be a bitch about it — probably because he was exceedingly rude to her the last time they spoke — Delacourt may have done him a favor by delaying his ability to go back to work.  These coming months needn't be useless,  Kruger realizes.  He can use them in pursuits he enjoys which will sharpen his senses and keep him in trim.  He can give himself an emotional lift by taking that long-delayed trip back home to surreptitiously look in on the descendants of those people he knew in his youth.  It's sad to know that his contemporaries have long been dead and dust, but their bloodlines keep them alive for him.  That's good enough. 

But the four months will also give Kruger what he needs most of all:  _time_.  Time to pull himself back together, to understand that the nightmares and the tears aren't shameful, so he can finally shrug them off;  time to stop wishing he still had his old, damaged body and, instead, to start really appreciating the new, whole one.  

Time to look in the mirror and see nothing but… himself.

 

-oOo- TBC -oOo-


	5. Brothers to the Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kruger arrives on Elysium to receive his new implants, accompanied by Drake and Crowe.

 

-oOo-

* * *

-oOo-

 

 

The day that Kruger has so desired and dreaded just a little finally arrives, as his men transport him to Elysium for the replacement of the implants he lost.  He takes nothing with him — not a change of clothes, not a comb, not a chomped-on twig for a toothbrush — but presents himself to the medical department in simple fatigues and a snarled,  "Get on with it!"

It will be four hours of automated surgery, a pass through the highest setting of the Armory's med-bay, and then he'll be stuck for two days in what passes for a hospital in a place that virtually never needs one.  It will be a lot of pain that the the med-bay cannot relieve as foreign material is introduced into Kruger's very bones and marrow to give him the ability to use the most terrible weapons Elysium has.  And not just to handle them:  he will be strengthened and re-made into the most dangerous of weapons himself.

He'll bear the pain stoically out of pride, because all agents worth anything do and he must, also;  because if he can't, then he will lose his identity as Kruger, the most feared CCB agent of them all.  It's the final thing he needs to do and to prove in order to come completely back to himself, with his new extremities and male parts fully integrated into his self-perception and sense of self-worth.  As Drake assured him would happen, they are now as much his own as the ones he was born with.

For the four months that Kruger's waited, the men of Oryx Squadron have been taken off active duty, and will remain so for the next several days, but that's just as well.  Delacourt knows that both Drake and Crowe are old, irritating men, liable to cause trouble if they're assigned to work with other commanders they don't think are up to snuff.  But what she doesn't understand is that these two are very much Kruger's family, and all this time, they've needed to gather round him, keeping him company and lending their support to get him up and running again, full bore and more dangerous than ever.  In the end, this was never about only one of them being so grievously wounded, and these men would never dream to let their comrade — their friend and brother — suffer alone.  

Drake and Crowe will not be the ones lying in a hospital bed four hours from now, but as they watch Kruger heal as far as any man can from the terrible events of India, then so will they.

 

-oOo-

FIN

-oOo-

 


End file.
